


After the Fact

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marriage Proposal, Marriage of Convenience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6244564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which they do things a bit backwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fact

**Author's Note:**

> Written prior to Series 2; AUish after series 1.

It’s impossible not to be suspicious the morning Sherlock brings him breakfast in bed. It’s just tea and toast with jam, but John peers over the top of the covers and very slowly reaches for the cup and plate. He’s barely sunk his teeth into a slice when Sherlock drops his suggestion unceremoniously. “We really ought to get married.”

After about forty seconds of John just staring at him incredulously, Sherlock calls him dull and stalks out of the room.

**

John chalks it up to a fluke for the next five and a half hours, until Sherlock shows up at the surgery with takeout. It makes him incredibly nervous; Sherlock has never buttered him for so much as a favor. Nevertheless John tucks in and listens very attentively as Sherlock lists the various legal conveniences that a civil union would afford.

“I think it’s a good idea.”

Sherlock has since left and John turns to stare at Sarah. “You were eavesdropping.”

“You left your office door open,” she replied. “It’s a good idea; you’d have a proper excuse to dash off at every little text.” She smirks and John knows it’s because he can’t really argue with her reasoning.

**

When he gets back to the flat, Sherlock is out, so John takes the time to call Harry. He nearly trips in wandering around the flat when she tells him she’s in favor of the idea.

“You don’t even like him,” he retorts.

“No, but you wind up in the hospital often enough because of him that he should be there when it happens.”

John doesn’t bother reminding her that this is because of her own over-protectiveness, that she hates Sherlock’s place in John’s life the same way she hated the Army, because he doesn’t have the energy to engage in the old argument and think about Sherlock’s bizarre proposal.

**

John mulls it over and then waits a few days, until the next case is finished. “I’ll marry you,” he says while settling wearily into a chair, “if you still fancy the idea.”

Sherlock is crashed on the couch, but he cracks open one eye to give John a wry smile. “Excellent.”

**

It’s all very simple and quiet. Harry seems relaxed, for once, and Mycroft is oddly serious about the whole thing. Nothing changes afterward, except, inexplicably, John feels more secure about things.

**

Margaret Holmes is nothing like John had pictured her. She’s regal, poised, and actually stunning, more so than he could have predicted a 67-year-old woman could possibly be. 

Christmas at the Holmes mansion is surreal, but oddly pleasant. John observes Sherlock and Mycroft’s interactions with their mother, the two of them more deferent than John would have thought possible.

John’s lured by the library, and is startled when Mrs. Holmes wafts in after him, two Christmas toddies in hand. She sits John down in one of the luxurious leather chairs and it’s surprisingly easy to talk to her, to answer all of her questions.

“I can see why Sherlock is so terribly fond of you,” she says with a glint in her eye.

John blinks, because the word fond is incongruous with the concept of Sherlock Holmes.

As if she can read his mind, she reaches over to lay a hand on his arm. “He’s always mentioning how proud he is.”

John feels a flush on the back of his neck that has nothing to do with the alcohol and realizes that he’s staring. “He said that?”

“Well, not in so many words,” she replies. “But a mother knows these things.”

**

The young woman can’t be more than nineteen. She’s pretty, in an innocent way, and the peaceful expression that is so often left in the eyes of someone who has died suddenly contradicts the marks on her body. John only avoids flinching because of his war experience. Though it’s barely perceptible, John knows Sherlock’s body language well enough to know that he’s also bothered by it. It does little to ease the rage inside of John, though, and when they get back to 221b he contemplates putting his fist through a wall. He’s not violent, but if Sherlock can riddle it with bullet holes, he should be allowed one indiscretion.

It’s not really clear who initiates it. Possibly it’s the way Sherlock puts his hands on John’s shoulders, a rare gesture of commiseration. When John turns to face him, he doesn’t know if Sherlock leans toward him first or if he reaches out, but soon they’re kissing fiercely, John’s fingers clumsily unbuttoning and Sherlock tentatively letting his fingers travel beneath John’s jumper.

Sherlock has him pressed into the mattress, grinding them together, John letting his hands explore every inch of skin, whimpering slightly whenever Sherlock pulls his mouth away from John’s lips. John drifts off to sleep with Sherlock’s arm wrapped possessively around him.

Uncertainty is a rare look for Sherlock, but there’s a hint of it in his eyes when he brings John tea the next morning. John rubs at his eyes before accepting the cup, and doesn’t meet Sherlock’s gaze for a moment. “Thank you,” he finally says, and reaches a tentative hand to entwine with Sherlock’s.

**

Nothing much changes. Sex is infrequent, occurring mostly when one or both of them need comfort. It’s always pleasant, often intense, and John pretends that nothing is missing.

**

Everything changes the night John is shot. He knows, even before he crumples to the ground, that the bullet has missed any vital organs or major arteries, and he tells himself, over and over, that it doesn’t hurt as much as his shoulder did, that it’s not as bad, that he should definitely not panic. He wants to cry out, but he doesn’t seem to be able to form the words.

Sherlock is resolutely ignoring the escaping criminal, dropping to his knees beside John. He’s pleading, saying John’s name, and it all seems so terribly wrong.

**

When he wakes up in the hospital Sherlock’s gaze is fixed on his heart monitor. John watches him watching it for a moment, before saying Sherlock’s name. Relief courses through him at the discovery that his voice is working. Sherlock shifts his gaze and takes John’s hand. John watches as his eyes fill up with water.

“Dammit John.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse. “It hurts like hell, but I love you.”

John squeezes his hand, weakly. “I know.”

**

“Give me your hand. Your left one.” John turns away from the window of the cab. It’s a wet, drizzly day, and they’re on their way back to 221b. He obliges without question, but it’s still a surprise when Sherlock slips a platinum band onto his third finger. He flexes. It’s heavy, cold, but already it begins to feel familiar. He glances up, and Sherlock is holding a second ring out to him. John takes it, sliding it carefully onto Sherlock’s slim finger. They let their hands idly entwine. When their eyes meet, John begins laughing.

Sherlock cups a hand behind his head and silences him with purposeful kissing. John pulls away, just for a moment, to catch his breath. “Yes,” he says. “I’m yours.” He shivers a little as Sherlock smiles and traces a finger down his cheek and his neck. “Good. Excellent.”

The sound of the rain and the tires on the street creates a rhythm that sends them home.


End file.
